Every meeting led to a parting, and so it would, as long as life was mortal. In every meeting there was some of the sorrow of parting, but in everything parting there was some of the joy of meeting as well.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound anf fury,
Signifying nothing.

Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff,
Beware the Thane of Fife. Dismiss me. Enough. [...]
Be bloody, bold, and resolute: laugh to scorn
The power of man, for none of womas born
Shall harm Macbeth. [...]
Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care
Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are.
Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be until
Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hill
Shall come against him.

'So that's little Scorpius,' said Ron under his breath. 'Make sure you beat him in every test, Rosie. Thank God you inherited your mother's brains.'
'Ron, for heaven's sake,' said Hermione, half-stern, half-amused. 'Don't try to turn them against each other before they've even started school!'
'You're right, sorry,' said Ron, but unable to help himself he added, 'don't get too friendy with him, though, Rosi. Granddad Weasley would never forgive you if you married a pure-blood.'